Bloody Russians
by ridiculousinpicadilly
Summary: The Hansens' first night in the Hong Kong Shatterdome. They'd like to get some sleep. The Kaidonovskys have other plans. One-shot. Takes place sometime within the timeline of Pacific Rim. Rated T for Chuck's dirty mouth, etc.


Chuck Hansen surveyed their new quarters, a frown on his face. "What a dump," he said. He tossed his backpack onto one of the beds with a huff. The room was small, plain, and uniformly tan, but clean and comfortable, with two beds, two small dressers, a couple of chairs pulled up to a long table, and a door leading to a little bathroom. Chuck flopped down next to his backpack on the bed he had claimed. Hercules Hansen shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with this place. More like proper army barracks if you ask me."

"No one asked you, old man," Chuck replied caustically.

"Don't call me that, son." Herc began unpacking his things and putting them neatly away in drawers. His movements were automatic, the movements of a military man, one used to never being in the same place for long, one used to packing and unpacking, never being settled. "Anyway," he continued, "we're lucky the UN left us one Shatterdome. The eggheads in charge might be fools, but things could be a lot worse." Chuck sat up at this. "Don't defend them. You know they're all fucking idiots." His jaw clenched. "And if you want to defend them, you're a fucking idiot, too!"

Herc noticed his son's hands curling into fists at his sides. He'd better end this before it got started. Before he could say anything or make a move toward his son, however, Max the bulldog started whining at the door of their room. With another huff of air that only the very unwise would dare to call a sigh, and a long, hard glare at his father, Chuck left to take his dog for a walk.

Hercules sat down on his own bed with a sigh. Too many years of misunderstandings, unfinished arguments, and unspoken feelings between him and his son. He doubted any of it would ever be resolved. In the drift, they had access to all of each other's thoughts and memories, but it wasn't the same. Strange that the one person who could be in Chuck's head seemed to know him the least.

Much later that night, the two men and the little bulldog settled in to sleep. Herc slept on his side, still, body poised for battle even in slumber. Chuck sprawled on his stomach, limbs everywhere, out like a light. Max slept on a pile of old blankets on the floor and snored like a lawnmower.

Sometime in the night, a thumping noise began to intrude on the edges of Chuck's slumber. In the depths of sleep, his mind tried to ignore it, but it persisted, eventually drawing him up into consciousness. Because of the long-term effects of drifting, neither Hansen could sleep easily if the other was awake. Herc opened his own eyes and sat up slowly, his ears taking in the steady noise. He raised an eyebrow at his son. "Damn Russians and their damn music," Chuck said, glaring at the wall they shared with the Kaidonovskys. "Hey! Turn that shit down! It's the middle of the fucking night!" Amid the steady noise came a distinctly feminine moan, and then another. A moment later, a third, masculine this time. Not the Russians' music, then. Just the Russians. Herc facepalmed, and Chuck blushed to the roots of his strawberry blond hair. Both men studiously avoided making eye contact with each other. Max continued to snore.

After a couple more minutes of forced eavesdropping, Herc threw the covers back. "That's it. I can't listen to this anymore." He banged on the shared wall with his fist. "Keep it down over there!" he yelled. If anything, the intensity of the sounds increased. Herc growled. He stormed from the room and swung himself up the steps to the Kaidonovskys' door. By some injustice of the universe, the sounds of their lovemaking were better muffled by their door than by the wall. Herc pounded on the door with his fist. "People are trying to sleep, you bastards!" Still no response. Herc rubbed his eyes. He didn't even know what time it was. He didn't want to know. He was too old for this shit. Herc turned away from the Kaidonovskys' door and dragged himself back up the steps to his own. Inside the room, Chuck lay flat on his back, gripping a pillow tight over his ears, wrath scrunching his features. The thudding and moaning was still very much audible, barely quieted by the wall.

"No luck," Herc said, sitting down wearily. "Damned impossible nuisances."

"_Oohh!_" cried one of the Kaidonovskys.

"Fucking crazy bastards," Chuck responded. "It's two-thirty in the motherfucking morning."

"Oi! Watch your language. I don't want to hear that kind of filth coming out of your mouth."

Chuck sat up, dropping the pillow and glaring at his father. "Or what, old man? You're gonna wash my mouth out with soap?"

"_Oooohh!_" moaned one of the Kaidonovskys.

"I am still your father, Charles Hansen, and-" Herc was cut off by a particularly loud moan that echoed through the wall. Chuck's head whipped around just in time to clearly hear, "_Ooohh! Lyosha! Moya lyubov!_" screamed through the wall.

"That's it. That's it! That's fucking it-I'm sleeping with Striker!" Chuck snatched up his pillow and stormed from the room. Herc contemplated following suit, but if there was one thing more unpleasant than listening to Aleksis and Sasha Kaidonovsky having sex, it was Chuck when he hadn't gotten enough sleep. He looked over at Max, who returned his stare mournfully and licked his droopy lips. Herc flopped back on the bed and tucked his head beneath the pillow, trying to drown out the thumps and continued cries of pleasure.

The next morning, Herc walked into the mess hall, trying to seem more awake than he really was. He was unsurprised to see his son glowering like a thundercloud at the Russians, who sat together as always. _They_ looked abominably refreshed. Smug, even. As he looked at them, eating their breakfast and somehow still wrapped around each other, Sasha met his eye and gave him a broad wink. Herc shook his head and headed for his son. Bloody Russians.


End file.
